


Ten Thousand Years

by raisedbymoogles



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cheering Up, Friendship, Gen, Hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Springer comforts Hot Rod after one of those rough days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Thousand Years

Hot Rod's curled up small as he can when Springer enters, like he still thinks he's in the tunnels rather than the relatively spacious room they now share on Earth. "Hey, kid," he greets as casually as any other day. "How you feeling?"

"Like I wish the volcano would erupt and bury me in hot lava and ash for ten thousand years."

Springer shutters his vents against a sigh - getting a dressing-down always sucks, no matter how justified it may have been at the time. "Hey, c'mon," he murmurs, easing himself onto the narrow berth next to his friend. "Everyone makes mistakes. Even Magnus. Even _me._ No one's expecting you to be perfect."

Hot Rod barely glances at him, and Springer knows that's not quite right - _Hot Rod_ expects Hot Rod to be perfect. Younglings can be moody, that's the way of things, but Hot Rod's weakness is his pride and he never handles it gracefully when the gulf between _what he is_ and _what he wants to be_ is made clear to him. He'll get there - even Kup admits Hot Rod will be the best of them one day, if you catch him in the right mood - but it's a painfully slow process for one so young.

Young enough to think ten thousand years is a long time, at that. Springer tugs him closer a bit roughly, like they're tussling, and it has the desired effect of making Hot Rod relax enough to drape against him. "Seriously," Springer tells him, "you don't even realize how often I slag things up. I leave a path of destruction and mayhem behind me, and that's just on my way to the washrack."

Hot Rod snorts into his chestplate. "You're a Wrecker. You're _supposed_ to." He tilts his head up, his earnest hope a painful thing to see. "Are you sure I can't be a Wrecker too?"

Springer can picture it all too easily. Hot Rod certainly has the daring, and the skills, and a certain.. _creativity_ regarding orders. He'd fit right in with the famous elite squad... and he'd die around his fifth mission. That was about the average for a Wrecker.

"Sorry, kid, membership's limited," Springer answers with a crooked grin that he knows doesn't quite reach his optics. "You're not quite crazy enough to make the cut."

Hot Rod makes a thoughtful sound, gaze turning faraway, and Springer is quietly terrified that Hot Rod is thinking up ways to prove him wrong.


End file.
